


Dependance

by orphan_account, Vacroniste



Category: Political RPF - France 21st c.
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11179638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vacroniste/pseuds/Vacroniste
Summary: Manuel Valls et Emmanuel Macron sont conviés à un congrès en Russie. Le voyage ne se déroule pas comme prévu.Manuel Valls and Emmanuel Macron are invited to a congress in Russia. The journey doesn't go as planned.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Dépendance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10664664) by [Vacroniste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vacroniste/pseuds/Vacroniste). 



> Translator's note: I am but a lowly A-level student. Forgive me if some of this sounds a bit unnatural, I'm trying to preserve as much of the original French as possible. Feedback on my translation (esp from native speakers) is much appreciated!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See original work for notes

“And now we raise our glasses to the union of our countries!”

 

Manuel grimaced behind a fake smile which hid his incomprehension, imitating those around him in cheersing. He felt profoundly ill-at-ease. And it showed. Perhaps it was the fatigue. Surely it was due to the fact that he was shy, and couldn’t stand being around so many people in such an enclosed space. Not only was the echo of the hubbub untenable for him, but it was spreading across the room in every language except his own. These accents and languages sounded cold and aggressive to his ears. All the ministers of Europe were reunited, but the multiculturalism only made him feel more isolated. In the middle of these glasses of champagne and the incessant noise, Manuel had an empty moment. During this brief moment, a moment which seemed to him frozen, he heard nothing more, save for the trembling of the train that was still advancing. They weren't here yet, and therefore still far from leaving. So that was it- it was exactly that; Manuel was homesick. He was alone. He was bored. He was tired, depressed, forsaken-

 

“Have you had a good evening?”

 

The prime minister came back to Earth. He heard and saw the crowd again. Emmanuel. Emmanuel had was with him. Of course. He wasn’t the only French person here. The adjustment time needed to get his feet back on the ground had pushed him to take this tense and authoritative tone which was so his own.

 

“You want to tell me where you’ve been?”

 

“Just went to take a tour.”

 

The younger man was, on the contrary, far more relaxed. Of course he’d spent a pleasant evening meeting lots of people, while Manuel waited, bored and shy. Hopefully the presence of his minister would mean he could get back into the conversation. That had been the case at the start of the evening, but now the conversation had moved on and the English had taken over; Valls couldn’t understand a word. He regarded Emmanuel with a certain disdain. He who had integrated himself, he who could speak English, he who was liked. The ease with which the young man was talking was only emphasising his natural charm. How could he resist? The older man was annoyed but fascinated. Annoyed that he had robbed him of his place, his audience, that he did better than him. And if he didn’t feel abandoned enough, Emmanuel, who had refilled his glass of champagne and taken a little cake, was about to skilfully escape from under Manuel’s nose. Panicked, Manuel grabbed his wrist firmly to stop him leaving again. His minister turned to him and, in a questioning tone, said,

“What? What do you have tonight? Looks like a mother hen.”

“I don’t want to find myself alone among the Russians who don’t understand a word of French.”

 

The beginning of a look of exasperation flashed across Emmanuel’s calm expression. After a moment, though, he sighed and kept it to himself. Yes, of course, he could understand. Even if he had taken a tour of the train entirely innocently, he had come with his elder, to spend the journey with him.

“Sorry. I didn’t realise.”

“It’s fine.”

“Can you let go of my wrist now?”

 

***

The two men entered their common room. Brightened somewhat by the champagne, the evening had eventually been almost fun. That didn’t prevent, now they were finally alone, Manuel from thinking it was only now that he was really relaxed. Firstly, because it was calm. Secondly, because no-one was around him, except his colleague. It was strange, but when Emmanuel had charmed the hosts and guests, Manuel had experienced a kind of jealousy, feeling abandoned as soon as the younger spoke English. In these moments, he comforted himself with the knowledge that, more than anyone there, they shared an exclusive relationship. And here, he was satisfied to have no-one but him, to have all his attention. Nevertheless, Manuel asked the question- why did he feel like this? Was this normal? Did Emmanuel feel the same?

 

Under the gaze of his roommate, Emmanuel removed his shirt to replace it with a t-shirt, the one he wore as pyjamas. Visibly exhausted, he slouched on his stomach on his bed, already about to fall asleep. But he still questioned Manuel, amused:

“You were scared of being left alone, huh? Admit it.”

“Sorry?”

He hadn’t just said that.

“Tonight, I mean.”

Yes, he _had_ just said that.

“Despite what you will try to believe, I don’t depend on you.”

That was _totally_ the case.

“Don’t take it to heart. I spent a nice evening with you- do you not feel the same?”

Evidently, it is.

“I couldn’t wait for it to finish.”

They exchange a look; Emmanuel with a curious expression, Manuel’s being cold. He wished to appear hostile again.

“You whiled the evening away quickly, I suppose.”

 

It was a grand declaration to recognise this. A huge step forward. And it was enough to make the younger man smile and for the conversation to begin again, on a lighter note. They talked for a bit, about Russia- the country that had welcomed them tonight in the first place- and the reception they had just been to. The more they talked, the shorter their responses became, until Manuel lapsed into silence. Emmanuel had fallen asleep like a child after being read a bedtime story. Manuel decided not to disturb him, and switched off his light. He tried to sleep. Time slowed to a crawl.

 

In perseverance, he tried to empty his mind. Without success.

So he tried another position. Still no joy.

He slowed his breathing. Nothing.

He tried counting sheep. Still, sleep evaded him.

 

 

His responsibilities weighed on his mind, and he couldn’t calm it enough to sleep. Manuel retrieved his book- left on his bedside table- and his phone, to light his way without waking the other man. Once he was out of the room and the door was closed, he leaned against the latter. He was so tired, but he couldn’t sleep. Minutes passed. The corridors were silent. Outside, only the noise of the train on the tracks could be heard. The prime minister decided to go on to one of the empty carriages, to take advantage of the tranquillity. But as he approached the door to open it, he heard murmurs breaking the silence. Something that sounded like a secret conversation. Manuel couldn’t help but open the door, which gave a squeak as he turned the handle. The Russians were still in the living room, and they clearly didn’t want anyone to know. Of course, he couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying, even if he’d wanted to. Despite his curious nature, he decided it was better not to know, and turned back- only to come nose-to-nose with one of them, about to re-join the others.

 

“What are you doing up so late?” said the Russian, in English.

 

Manuel couldn’t help but grimace. “Pardon?”

 

“You’re not sleeping.”

 

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

 

The Russian rolled his eyes. _Fucking French people_. Rather than prolonging the discussion, he stepped around Manuel and shut the door in his face, making himself entirely clear.

 

Strange. What was going on in there? Manuel was tempted to go back in and find out. Just tempted, though, because it was probably all in his head, or, at worst, nothing that was going to affect him directly. And anyway, it was late, and all he wanted to do was sleep. He sat himself in the carriage opposite and began to read.

 

It was _A Clockwork Orange_ , the book of the classic Kubrick film. In truth, he’d never seen the film. Manuel had always preferred books to films. But this he didn’t like. It was vulgar as much in its style as in its narrative, which promoted ‘ultra-violence’. Indeed, he didn’t see why it was so popular, except in inflaming the public with perverse intentions.

 

It used a strange argot, and he exasperated himself, once again, at having to face the obstacle of language. However, he didn’t stop reading. He could have, but something intrigued him. The main character and narrator of the story- he was intelligent, cultivated, charismatic, raised in a family in all ways respectable and normal- in short, a saint. But he was engulfed in violence, as if it were a drug.

 

Manuel closed the book, full of questions but also exhausted. He leaned his head back. Reconnected with reality, he realised something. The train had stopped. Was he dreaming? It was supposed to run all night, non-stop. He wondered, but didn’t dare move. That couldn’t be normal. After ten minutes of silence, the train started going again, as if nothing had ever been different. Manuel got up and went back to his room, hoping this time to be able to sleep, but just before he got in, the quiet voices of the Russians disappeared.

 

Hesitant, he couldn’t help but look round once more. Nobody. He opened the door wide. Nothing. Then- a dull noise. An explosion. In the carriage just in front. An explosion which reached him; the train was split open at the left and he felt a weight which pushed him from the carriage with force. He saw the train destroyed as he was thrown from it. His ears were ringing and he couldn’t get a grip of the situation. All he knew was that it was Emmanuel who had pushed him from the train, and was now leaning over him, calling to him, waiting for an answer that didn’t come. Manuel’s vision blurred. He felt blood stream out of him. He thought he was dying. He closed his eyes, defeated, and finally rested, stretched out in the Siberian snow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See original work for notes

He came round. It was still dark but the little voice was there, letting him hope that he wasn’t yet dead. His eyes finally opened to see the hospital in which Manuel had spent his coma, as well as to find whichever nurse it was who had taken care of him. The first bit of good news: he wasn’t dead. The second: he’d been found and brought back to France.

“Kakty sebya ciustvuesh?”

Well, fuck. Not France- Russia. And, judging by his view out of the window, not even Moscow- just somewhere else in the depths of Siberia. The landscape worried him: high altitude, rocky terrain, isolated in the heart of the mountains. Since waking, Manuel had sensed something unhealthy coming from this place. Maybe he was a bit paranoid, since he’d only ever known city life, but this place was particularly sinister, unclean and old. No time to lose: he had to go, and quickly. And Emmanuel- he couldn’t forget to bring Emmanuel with him. It was the last thing he could remember before waking up here, Emmanuel saving him from the attack, and he couldn’t be far away. 

“My friend?” Manuel tried in English, in his terrible accent.

“Oh…me no…speak English,” said the nurse. 

 

Better and better. Even if he’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed- and that was something- he tried to channel his anger, so as not to scare the miserable-looking nurse. Manuel decided to look for his friend, visibly unhurt, at least not so much that he wouldn’t be able to get out of bed. There were wounds all over him, here and there, including the scar on his front, protected by a bandage. When he got up out of bed, the nurse didn’t protest. She didn’t dare. The corridor was empty but very long and narrow. Manuel walked along, determined, for a long time- a very long time. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but surely Emmanuel must have been somewhere, and so he looked. He continued to walk in his search, but the route didn’t stop, no path in view. And the more he went on, the more narrow the corridor became. He felt suffocated. It was too hot in such a small space, and the omnipresent confinement was compounded by the weak light which flickered from an old bulb, about to die, which took the place of any kind of window. A window, no matter how horrible the view outside might have been, would have alleviated his feelings of anxiety, ones which forced him to slow his pace.

           

Footsteps could be heard behind him, and Manuel didn’t want to turn round. Out of fear or pride, he turned his head, to see Emmanuel.

“Hey.”

There was an embarrassing moment, during which Manuel didn’t know how to respond. He had turned completely round to face the younger man now, no longer anxious, but unable to form a coherent thought. In a movement all the more strange, Emmanuel approached him and embraced him uncomfortably. Manuel returned the gesture with even less comfort, bringing it to a swift close by patting Emmanuel on the back, underlining how ill-at-ease he was. Emmanuel drew back and silence fell again.

“I’m glad you’re OK.”

Manuel cut short this exaltation, hiding the possible weakness that the statement implied.

“You really need to tell me how we got here.”

 

 

It was a fairly unexpected gamble, but the pair of them got away alive, which wasn’t the case for everyone. Only four people were in their carriage which only had two rooms. And none of them had survived. Maybe at the front or the back of the train, but they would be impossible to find. The prime minister had just closed his eyes when his colleague had found himself alone, in the cold, with no one around to come to help him. He felt carried by an energy, a will to fight. Emmanuel had lifted him on his back, with Manuel’s head on his shoulder and his legs over his arms, and taken off without knowing where he was going; his phone couldn’t tell him a thing. He had to pause every so often to check the route and eventually they found civilisation, even if it was hostile. It didn’t look like a village: there was almost nothing there. A bar, some houses. Not even a town hall, a restaurant, a supermarket, and almost certainly nowhere to get medical attention. Nearby, there was only an abbey, which seemed the likeliest place to get help. An abbey, a hospital, an asylum- nothing seemed less sure. But the fact was, this seemed like the only place for miles around where there would be any way of getting out of this situation. So there they were- safe and welcomed.

 

Manuel wasn’t oblivious to all this, far from it. The knowledge that he was safe and sound here while others had lost their lives made him realise the magnitude of the situation. There had been a stitch-up, something serious, an attack on France and on the other countries present, on Europe.

“Let’s go. We need to talk to the president.”

Emmanuel acquiesced. When Manuel started off straight ahead, he pulled him back by pointing out that the stairs going to the hall were just there. Something that Manuel couldn’t see on his own, strangely.

           

As they walked down the stairs, a strange feeling came over Manuel. Emmanuel, his minister, had seen him in a deplorable, fragile state. It was somewhat shameful to be seen like that. Despite everything, he had taken him here, when he could have left Manuel for dead. Perhaps he should thank him. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Emmanuel, meanwhile, was oblivious to all this, as he tried to talk to the receptionist who was now in front of them.

“We’d like to make a phone call,” he said, in English.

The receptionist seemed surprised.

“Not possible.” He didn’t speak the best English either. But could he really be blamed? After all, he was in the middle of nowhere- there was no reason for him to try to learn.

“Why not?”

The receptionist was just as embarrassed to have bothered them, and made a signal to the staff behind him. He left in silence, and Emmanuel and Manuel exchanged a glance. They waited for a while, during which Manuel considered again saying ‘thank you’.

“By the way, Emmanuel.”

The response didn’t come as easily as he had hoped. Emmanuel turned to him, without the least idea of what he was about to say.

“Weren’t you cold, walking here from the train? You were only wearing a t-shirt when you went to bed.”

Emmanuel laughed. “I didn’t know you paid attention to stuff like that.” Well, this was awkward. “I found something to cover up with, if that makes you feel any better.”

His smile was comforting. Just then, the receptionist returned, and asked the two of them to follow him into an office. In there was a man- an old man, wearing religious insignias. There was no doubt he was some kind of monk. His wrinkled face was testament to the impact of the years on him, but despite that, he was still modern and elegant, endowed with a fine figure.

 

“What brings you here, my sons?” he said.

“You speak French!” replied Emmanuel. The man in front of them seemed pleased.

“France is a beautiful country. I’ve visited many times, and learnt the language very early on.”

Thus began a deeply dull conversation between Emmanuel and the man. The man recounted his working life, in the wish to seem like a man of letters, and Emmanuel played along by taking the same distinguished and pretentious tone. Manuel couldn’t help but notice the strange way the monk was looking at Emmanuel. Not perverted- far from it- but rather confused, as if he had seen him somewhere before.

“We would like to use the telephone.” Manuel interrupted- they didn’t have time to chat- without worrying whether he seemed rude.

“That won’t be possible, my sons. Look, here we treat illnesses. Very serious illnesses. And in order to improve recovery, we’ve banned anything that might produce harmful waves. I hope you understand.”

They understood completely that they were in a forgotten hole, on the margins of society. But this was too much: they had to go.

“You’ll come back, won’t you? Not that you’ve got much choice, anyway,” said the man as they left. They nodded, without really believing it. After all, the only thing that really mattered was getting back to France, and that wouldn’t take very long. At least, they thought so. Leaving the abbey revealed just how few means of transport there were. In fact, the train was the closest, and even then it had taken Emmanuel an hour to reach the village. And after the bomb, it was difficult to imagine how the railway line could be used again. Not without help, anyway.

 

The two of them went into the only bar in the village, and went up to the counter.

“If you want phone,” said the bartender, in broken English, when they asked, “You drink.”

Emmanuel calmed his colleague who seemed ready to yell at the bartender, and bought a drink. He sat on one of the stools while Manuel used the phone. Manuel hesitated a moment while speaking to the operator, whom he had to ring before dialling François. While waiting, he gazed up at the clock above him, with its incessant noise. It was 6 PM, and he had been comatose since the night before. Then, he looked round at the bar, its damaged wooden walls, its shoddy construction, the regulars. And he realised that as well as their hostile looks, they were all looking- discreetly or not- at Emmanuel. It was probably due to Emmanuel’s overwhelming appearance of a clean-cut banker, though Manuel doubted this: they looked more scared and worried. The minister didn’t notice, or at least was pretending not to, and instead opened the beer in front of him.

 

“Hello?” Finally François’ voice came through.

“François, it’s Manuel.”

“Manuel!” The president sounded surprised.

“Listen, there’s been a sort of attack on our train. Not everyone got away. But that doesn’t matter right now- you need to get us out of here. We’re in- well, we’re in the middle of nowhere, completely cut off.”

“Russia told the media you two had disappeared. They didn’t tell us all this.”

Things were beginning to become clearer. It _was_ the Russian government that, for one reason or another, was behind all this.

“Where are you?” said the president.

Ah. A good question. In all honesty, it was impossible to know. He left his superior on hold to talk to the manager. He tried to manage on his own to find out what he needed to know, but their respective levels of English held them back.

“Hey, Emmanuel, maybe instead of sitting there twiddling your thumbs you could try to help me? You’re the one who’s supposed to speak English.”

He regretted his words immediately. Emmanuel went pale and seemed tense.

“Emmanuel? Are you OK?”

Left with no response, he lay his hand on Emmanuel’s chest, which was beginning to give off a certain heat. Emmanuel pushed his hand away, annoyed.

“I’m fine.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See original work for notes

_“_ _Dear dear, this boy does look messy, doesn’t he? Just look at the state of him._ _”_

_“Violence makes violence,” said the top millicent in a very holy type goloss. “He resisted his lawful arresters.”_

 

It was half past five, or something like that. One could be forgiven for thinking it was earlier, but evening was already beginning to fall, made all the quicker by the approaching winter. The army had said they had sent a team to follow the path of the train, until they found the place where the bomb had gone off, and to recover them. Until the army had found them, however, they had to wait. The hours passed. Manuel had begun to read _A Clockwork Orange_ again, since Emmanuel was in no mood to chat, and it looked like they’d be there a while. Manuel figured that they would indeed have to sleep in the convent-hospital-asylum- or whatever it was- as the old priest had predicted. He didn’t necessarily want to, but the search would take longer than a night, and they had to wait. According to Hollande, at least.

_“It wasn’t me, brother, sir,” I said, a malenky bit weepy. “Speak up for me, sir, for I’m not so bad. I was led on by the treachery of the others, sir.”_

 

And since they hadn’t spent the night outside, Emmanuel had begun a fever. Again the barman regarded them with an insistent eye, telling them not that it was time to leave, but that they should move on as night fell on this corner of Siberia.

 

_“I’m not so bad. I was led on by the treachery of the others, sir.”_

Manuel paid for the pints they had drunk and made for the only place that had been so courteous as to offer them welcome: the abbey. It looked exactly the type you would expect to find in a place like this; that is to say old, damaged and with a slightly scary air about it, but nevertheless big enough and with a large front garden. It had been explained to them that the right-hand side of the place was reserved for doctors, while the left was for priests and other religious types- that is to say, one side was an abbey, while the other was a hospital; everything necessary in the field of psychiatry, hence the feeling of an asylum that hung over the place. Although many doctors and nurses- although the workforce was somewhat reduced- worked there, the majority were priests and nuns, people like that. If Manuel and Emmanuel had seen very little it was because they worked in the other half, the psychiatric section, with the mentally ill. It was difficult to see _how_ exactly they treated their patients, but it was certainly their mission.

 

A stone had just struck Manuel on the head. He was shocked, even if it was only a weak throw. He turned round to see who had thrown it: a young girl, ungainly-looking and maladroit. She disappeared as quickly as she’d come, running in the same ungainly manner. The two of them watched her, both tense and perplexed.

 

Once inside, the priest who had welcomed them the first time did so again with a certain joy, and even permitted them to call him ‘Father Alex’.

“I meant to tell you earlier- but it doesn’t matter, you’re back now. I’m the one- I guess you could say- who’s in charge of the hospital. Other than that, there’s Lara, one of the most capable doctors we have here, who’s my right-hand-man. If you can’t find me for some reason, you can speak to her.”

“Funny you should say that- about people who live here,” Manuel began. “We’ve just met a very strange girl, in front of the entrance.”

“Ah, yes. That’s Tanya. You must understand, she’s suffered terribly since her parents abandoned her. We brought her here, very unstable. We’re treating her as best we can, and though she’s made progress, there’s still a lot of work to do before she…” he trailed off, as if not knowing where to go with it. “She used to be very vulgar and aggressive, but she’s getting better.”

“She threw a stone at my head,” said Manuel.

“She…?”

            The young girl was watching this going on from behind a wall, and when Father Alex saw her, he made it quite clear that she would be punished.

            Talk. That they would talk.

            He went up to her, so as to be further away from the others to talk to her discreetly.

 

Emmanuel didn’t follow. He had no desire to do so. All he wanted to do was lie down- to go home, in fact. But before that, there were formalities that had to happen. The thought alone was exhausting.

            Manuel watched the priest and heard his voice- severe and authoritarian. He looked a little at the girl, Tanya. She had the face of someone being preached to, of someone who had been badly treated.

_“I’m not so bad.”_

            Emmanuel had his eyes fixed on the nurse, who, given that they had so few staff, was also acting as a switchboard operator. She wrote something on a piece of paper, her hand trembling.

            Manuel watched as Tanya went past the wall, with a menacing hand on her. Emmanuel took the bit of paper in his hands. What he saw shocked him. A single word, an instruction: RUN. He would have liked to show it to his colleague, but Manuel was looking in a different direction.

“I’m going back to the bar, to see if we’ve got a reply.”

Before Manuel could react, Emmanuel was gone, and the priest was back- and he had brought someone with him. This Lara, of whom he had spoken just a few minutes earlier, had a sinister but nevertheless beautiful face, and slightly limp blonde hair that fell down her shoulders. Manuel didn't think she was the type of person he would get along with, but he had been in situations like this many times before, with people he didn’t like. Her handshake was just as cold as the rest of her.

 

They began a conversation in their own language, and the prime minister felt once again isolated. He found Russian a very sinister language. After a few minutes of this, the priest asked him, “So, are you two spending the night here?”

“It all depends on the call from the president. We wouldn’t want to put you out, after all.”

“You’re not putting us out at all! You’re absolutely welcome here, as welcome as any new visitors.”

_Visitor_ had the strange echo of _hostages_. They hadn’t popped in for a visit, nor to stay in a guest house. They were stuck here, and the idea of having to spend even another night there was worrying, repulsive, and the brunette’s only wish was that his time here would go quickly and soon he’d return home, far from everything here. He feigned interest to try and pretend to himself that his surroundings were less dull.

“So, how old is this place?”

“It opened its doors in 1965. I was there, of course.”

“Ah. It seemed older to me. Has it always been a hospital?”

 

The priest seemed embarrassed and didn’t respond. Manuel didn’t press him. It didn’t matter, anyway. The hospital’s service began to empty and the three of them stood in the middle of the reception, waiting for Emmanuel’s return. And then he came in, completely disorientated, given that he, more than his colleague, needed and wanted to sleep. Valls saw Lara’s face, frozen as if surprised. And in that long silence, that she was the first to break, she approached Emmanuel and called him by a name that wasn’t his own.

“Keith?”

The minister didn’t understand. He looked in confusion at Manuel while the Russian woman came closer, until they found themselves nose-to-nose. She put her hand gently on his face. A glimmer could be found in her eyes.

“It’s you? Keith? I can’t believe you’re back. You are,” she said, in English.

When her first tears fell, she leaned in and kissed him on the lips. He didn’t react. He didn’t know what to do, and didn’t dare to push her away. He remained stock-still, his eyes open in incomprehension, like he’d never been kissed before.

Father Alexei called for personnel to intervene and stop what was happening. The nun took her by the arm, pulling her away despite her dogged determination. And even when she was being led away, she still stared at Emmanuel, who was in a daze.

 

“Please forgive me for all that. These past few days haven’t been very easy…let me give you the keys to your rooms. You’re on the third floor.”

The subject was sensitive, given the speed with which it had been dispatched. Once by themselves, the Frenchmen followed the path to their rooms in the same silence that dominated Siberia, apart from the sighs Manuel gave to stop himself from smashing up all the furniture he saw.

 

“I guess we have to sleep here, huh? They haven’t given the news in France?”

Valls, having put his key in the door now turned to Emmanuel to understand his lack of response. The latter breathed hard, pressing his hands into his eyes to concentrate on what was around him. The voice of his colleague seemed to be coming from far away; he was in no state to respond. His body leaned back and his legs buckled under the strain. He fainted, and Manuel, in his haste, caught him in his arms before he’d hit the floor.

 

 


End file.
